


fire in your heart

by linabauer



Series: we are the answer to everything we need, we are the beauty in our hopes and dreams [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Lucien Vanserra-centric, Wow, damn it i need to get things done besides ao3, feyre and rhys pretend to be mates, i could not not write this or i wouldnt be productive, nesta gets lucien to vow to protect elain, so mor and feyre wont be outed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26557516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linabauer/pseuds/linabauer
Summary: Lucien watches Feyre crumble as he deals with Tamlin. Internal court politics have always been messier than external ones.Lucien is the 7th son of a union of fire. But is he though?Canon compliant until the ending.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Morrigan, Ianthe/Lucien Vanserra, because tamlin sucks and encourages dub-con bordering on rape, ha you could never have guessed, only briefly - Relationship
Series: we are the answer to everything we need, we are the beauty in our hopes and dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916527
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. prologue

Amren hums in an old language, the language of the old death gods, as she downs her glass of fresh goat blood. The creatures around her house seem to stop and shiver.

Amren’s blood red lips curl into a wicked smirk.

The Cauldron is brewing something, and she could feel it in her bones that it would be the greatest thing she has seen in her long, immortal life.


	2. you ask, "what are we made of?"

Lucien has never seen such a mess before.

So much paperwork delegated to him thanks to Tamlin.

Lucien sighs. Sometimes he wished he were dead, if only to stave off the paperwork that came with being a member of the Courts.

The clock chimes. It’s 8. Time to go hunting.

Lucien prepares himself to watch Feyre and Tamlin go at it again.

-

He meets Ianthe on the way.

Lucien puts up his best “I’m the fucking son of a High Lord, Emissary to another High Lord, you should bow before me peasant” demeanour.

Of course, Ianthe is not deterred.

“Hello Lucien,” Ianthe simpers.

“High Priestess,” Lucien says dismissively before striding ahead, internally groaning as Ianthe follows.

How Feyre dealt with her, he didn’t know. But perhaps she too needed some female company besides Alis in this Manor of mostly males.

Tamlin would not let his lover talk to the keep, no. High Lords had appearances to keep.

Lucien nearly growls as Ianthe’s robes swish against his trousers.

“I was wondering, what would you be wearing for the union of our High Lord and his lover?” Ianthe continues.

“I don’t suppose you would know,” Lucien dryly replies as he increases his speed.

“Why, I have a few suggestions of course. There was a delivery of some forest green cloth earlier, the servants could make something out of that for you. You’ve always been quite fetching in tighter clothing,” Ianthe flutters her lashes “coyly” at Lucien.

Lucien’s inner self nearly gags.

“My wardrobe is none of your concern. Perhaps you should invest your time in your own,” Lucien curls his lips into a feral smile, and lets the door shut behind him as Ianthe breaks her seductive facade and glares at him.

“Lucien, don’t be so rude to Ianthe,” Tamlin chides. Lucien tenses, waiting for the disapproval and punishment.

“Ianthe can be something when it comes to clothing, can’t she? Yesterday she buried me in fabrics to choose for the table cloth. A table cloth! Cauldron, why can’t you fae be less fussy,” Feyre sighs dramatically and Lucien grins.

“There’s my favourite artist. We shall plan our escapades from the dear High Priestess together, but alas! She might be listening in with her 6th sense and prayers to beseech the gods above and cleansing our sins with silk and tulle, we must not discuss this further,” Lucien says mock seriously as Feyre breaks out into a smile and laughs heartily, looking much lighter than she had in days.

“Feyre, Lucien,” Tamlin sighs.

Lucien knows that tone. The tone of a fae male, ruffled and ready to go for aggression.

Mates.

Territorial.

Lucien backs down as Feyre’s laughter falls to silence.

“I will have everything ready, my Lord,” Lucien says.

Tamlin nods distractedly.

“Tamlin,” Feyre begins, and Lucien mentally sighs.

Here we go again.

“No, Feyre, it is for your safety.”

Two stubborn individuals. It was a miracle the Cauldron decided to pair them together.

“I can hunt, I don’t want to pick wildflowers, I’m not delicate!”

Lucien sees what Feyre refuses to see. Gaunt, pale, suffering. And he could do nothing about it, as it would be against the orders of Tamlin.

He really should get the servants to make her more broth instead of the solid foods they eat all the time if Feyre can’t stomach it.

“Love, I know you want to hunt, but Amarantha’s allies are still out there. Just yesterday, Lucien hunted down 5 naga.”

Damn you Tamlin, Lucien thinks as he smiles sheepishly at Feyre, who’s head whipped to him.

“It’s fine, I’m used to it. You don’t get this far in life without injuries. Feyre, you should listen to Tamlin. Give it some time, we’ll clear the area of any harmful creatures, then you will be free to roam the area,” Lucien compromises instead, ignoring Tamlin’s growl of warning and Feyre’s miserable look.

Duties. He had duties, loyalties to his High Lord and the Lady Consort.

“You can paint,” Tamlin offers, quite uselessly, in Lucien’s opinion.

“Fine,” Feyre seethes.

Lucien knows, knows that Feyre is going to blow up at some point.

He just hoped he’d be around to shield her from Tamlin’s wrath.


	3. i answer, "from sad, cold love and

Talking with Feyre. Fighting with Feyre.

When has his life ever gotten so exhausting?

In some way, he could sympathise with Feyre. She had no idea of fae traditions, yet she was expected to uphold them.

Lucien was getting her a manual on the updated traditions soon, and fast.

Did Ianthe not give her one? Did Tamlin not tell her what to do, to say?

The lack of etiquette lessons were understandable. But at least a basis of knowledge, what that too hard to grant?

Lucien had already pushed Tamlin once today. He would wait for tomorrow to do it again.

He saw the possessiveness and adoration between Tamlin and Feyre.

He knew how far they would go for each other. It was natural, they were waiting for the mating bond to snap into place.

It would be devastating for Tamlin if Feyre died, again. He had seen the light leave Feyre’s eyes, had seen as the High Lords carried out the Rite of Rebirth. For the human turned fae, for the saviour of them all.

For the Cauldron blessed one.

He doubted the High Lords would do it again.

“But you’re deliberately not telling me things.”

“He is my High Lord. His word is law. We have this one chance, Feyre, to rebuild and make the world as it should be. I will not begin that new world by breaking his trust. Even if you …”

“Even if I what?”

Oh Feyre. Wild, untameable, as always.

“I was forced to watch as my father butchered the female I loved. My brothers forced me to watch,” Lucien ground out.

Feyre paled spectacularly.

“There was no magic spell, no miracle to bring her back. There were no gathered High Lords to resurrect her. I watched, and she died, and I will never forget that moment when I heard her heart stop beating,” Lucien confesses.

Jesminda, who had brought his world to life.

“Tamlin got what I didn’t,” Lucien breathes out, “We all heard your neck break. But you got to come back. And I doubt that he will ever forget that sound, either. And he will do everything in his power to protect you from that danger again, even if it means keeping secrets, even if it means sticking to rules you don’t like. In this, he will not bend. So don’t ask him to—not yet.”

And in some ways, Lucien felt terrible for manipulating Feyre like that. She wouldn’t understand, and he hoped she would never understand what it felt like to love so deeply and whole-heartedly that even the thought of losing the other brought pain and sorrow that felt so real, because it would be devastating, and Lucien wasn’t sure if he could pick up the pieces of Feyre after that if that happens.

“Okay,” Feyre replies.

“Okay,” Lucien repeats, refraining from offering a hand to her to guide her to her room.

Tamlin would have slaughtered him.

Lucien watches Feyre leave, like a shadow of her former self, light and yet heavy, all skin and bones and guilt.

Lucien does nothing but watch, as his Lord ordered it, so mote it be.

-

The wedding was atrocious. It felt wrong. White everywhere. Gold twinkling. Green for Spring.

And Feyre came.

She was dressed like a doll, looking so nervous.

And they showered red petals on the carpet.

Lucien fixes his metal eye on Feyre as she freezes at the sight of them.

Cauldron, he should have known, should have realised.

The bond of protection between he and Feyre flares up as Feyre’s begging fills his mind.

He knows, he knows he should help, should guide Feyre back to the dressing room and calm her down before bringing her back for the wedding but-

It would send a message. That Feyre was more comfortable with Lucien. That Feyre wasn’t ready. Tamlin would undoubtedly never forgive him.

Stand down.

Lucien cursed the heavens as he put all of his will into ignoring the pleas, only shooting Tamlin a furtive look to get him to act, to please act-

Sometimes, Lucien agreed with Rhysand about Tamlin’s inaction.

And speak of the Crone, Rhysand appears in a storm of darkness and wind.

-

Lucien sees Ianthe look on with pure fear. Sees Tamlin’s possessiveness, sees the rage.

Think, Lucien. Think.

He could grab Feyre and winnow her out. But it would take too long, Rhysand would grab him and her if he could, the prick.

If Rhysand was here, getting Feyre would be seen more of defence against an intruder, which was why he was considering it.

But somehow, Lucien knew that Rhysand would not do anything to Feyre.

Feyre looked at Rhysand in pure desperation, looked at Tamlin, begged Tamlin.

Begged, for what? What Rhysand wanted, not even Tamlin would be able to stop.

They leave, and the whole room goes into chaos as Lucien stares, stares at the spot they were on.

Lucien hoped Feyre was free.


	4. the endings of stories that were never told.

There’s a growl, and Lucien whips his head to Tamlin.

Cauldron.

“Everyone, get out,” Lucien orders, standing deadly still as he watches Tamlin struggle with himself, to keep that primal beast under control.

“Get out!” Lucien barks as the remaining occupants rush out, closing the door just in time for that beast to ripple to the surface.

Lucien wreathes himself in a circle of flame, daring the beast to come nearer.

It did.

Tamlin leapt over the circle and was met headfirst with another pulse of fire.

Tamlin roars as Lucien dances away nimbly.

It’s just another dance, a bull and a bullfighter.

Keep your head high, do not show your fear, his dance instructor had taught him.

Lucien sweats as the minutes turn into hours and he is still conjuring and dropping every single essence of him into the flame that kept him from being ripped to shreds, that kept the attention on him and not the others in the manor.

Hopefully most attendees would have left. The sentries on duty would not have, out of loyalty, however.

Which was why Lucien was doing this.

It could take days for Tamlin to snap out of it.

Lucien keeps Tamlin’s attention to him, makes him not even consider breaking down the doors or charging through windows.

Tamlin prowls around the cocoon of fire and light and ash.

He is Lucien Vanserra, 7th son of Beron and Hestia, High Lord and Warrior Consort, he has the power of the Cauldron-blessed in him, he has brought 2 of his brothers to their knees by the sheer force of willpower alone when they had tried to kill him, he has not been broken by Autumn, he has been loyal to Tamlin, he has had his eye gouged out by a monster and lived.

He has made his vows to the edge of the Autumn border to protect those who needed protection no matter the costs, no matter the blood and no matter the background.

The sentries would lay down their lives for him, and he would do so for them too.

And so Lucien continues his deadly dance with Tamlin, hoping that he would tire after a few hours or go somewhere to lick his wounds before seeking him out again.

-

Lucien is exhausted, he is bone-weary, the magical exhaustion seeping in as he spends the last of his burning embers on healing his wounds.

Tamlin, after 5 days, after tearing Lucien apart once he finally ran out of magic and energy and diversions, had cooled down.

Half the manor was trashed. Feyre’s bedroom was trashed.

Tamlin’s guilt and possessiveness could be smelt by even those not High Fae.

So when he got summoned to Tamlin’s study, he slowly dragged himself there, knees twinging, ankles barking and head pounding, Tamlin had pursed his lips and forced him to go back to bed for another day.

The servants had left a healing salve from Day, a rare one, for him that night, and the sentries had delivered it.

An endless loop of being beaten up for others and healing, one recognised by the ones most High Fae deemed “unworthy” and “lesser”.

Lucien had thought that the “lesser fae” were worth thousands of the many-faced royalty, as he rubbed them into his tender muscles and the smell of something citrus-y and fresh like what Day was usually associated with permeated the air.

-

Lucien watched dully as Feyre reunited with Tamlin and kissed him hard.

She smelt of relief, yet happiness tinged with sorrow.

And her bedroom, Lucien had visited her bedroom by the door to see if anything could be salvaged for Feyre as a welcome back gift.

There was nothing but a necklace and a bow she had kept from her hunting days, but he had left them in her new room anyways.

The smell of guilt and suffocation, sorrow, desperation had hit Lucien so hard he had doubled over choking.

He didn’t know if it was Tamlin or Feyre that left such scents, and didn’t think he would ever want to know.

And Lucien was snapped out of his thoughts as Tamlin ordered him over.

The information retrieval for an upper hand had begun.

-

Feyre gave her jewels to the water wraith.

Lucien nearly groans, very nearly decides to leave and knock his head on the door of his room over and over again until he eventually died from internal bleeding or something.

The dinner was going to be a very aggressive affair.

-

He was right.

And again, he was defending Feyre and Tamlin. And again, he was being torn apart and yanked to both sides. His High Lord and Lady Consort. His master and mistress.

When was life ever easy on him?

“She meant no harm Tam,” Lucien softly says.

Tamlin snaps back.

“Worse things have happened, worse things can happen. Just relax,” Lucien soothes, like how a bullfighter would keep away the red cloak and let the bull calm down, feed the bull and bring it out of the arena once the show was over.

Tamlin’s emerald eyes were feral as he snarled at Lucien, “Did I ask for your opinion?”

Lucien knows. He knows he should not back down, for Feyre’s sake. He could tell how much she was drowning, how much she felt for the plight of the water wraith.

Feyre thought Tamlin would let him get away with such insolence.

But the wrath in his eyes, no, Lucien was still not healed from the last encounter with the primal force under his skin. His powers were still half replenished, and if he had to hold off Tamlin while Feyre and the others were still here at half strength and half healed-

Lucien lowers his head in submission.

_I serve you, my Lord_

And Feyre doesn’t glare, she stares at him with those damning eyes, stares and stares with hate and resignation and despair-

Maybe he should have fought back, should have yanked on the chains binding him, maybe, just maybe, he should have ended it all, should have died under the mountain during Feyre’s trials. Maybe they were both just ghosts living in their immortal bodies.

Lucien blinks as Feyre staggers back. Odd, he thinks, narrowing his eyes at her as she stares back in horror at him or at Tamlin.

Feyre shifts from her right side to her left and her fingers curl, pinky tapping the table repeatedly.

A nervous tick.

But why?

Feyre leaves, Tamlin leaves.

Lucien pretends to not notice the handprints beneath Feyre’s napkin and pours some power into the wood to repair it.

-

Lucien waits. He waits in tense silence as he shadows Tamlin, beast yet again rippling at the surface.

He will protect the people living under this roof and beyond, even if he was collateral. It was the least he could do to honour the servitude between him and his High Lord, who would not doubt be in pain and guilt if anyone had been grievously injured or Mother-forbid, dead by his hands, or claws.

Lucien was walking by on his 523rd round around the level when he felt more than heard a wave of power emanate from a room.

Tamlin. Feyre.

Lucien feeds his power to a few security runes he had carved into the foundations of the manor as his magic clamps down on Tamlin’s.

It was an outright, blatant form of disobeying his orders as Emissary and friend. It was violating to repress magic.

But what could he do, when his life was at stake, when Feyre might very well be blasted to smithereens, when the other fae could very well be killed just for being around?

Lucien feels a second wave of magic flare up.

Feyre.

Lucien cuts off his magic from the runes and winces at the headache now forming.

He was not going to enjoy the next few days, he sighs as he slips away, wiping any trace of his scent and steps from the level, away from his Lord and Lady who were most likely still cooling down.

Feyre was going to snap, he could feel the fraying ends. He could feel the power in her, some small part of it making his own magic sing and toes curl. After all, Tamlin’s magic and his own ancestor’s was in Feyre.

Lucien was definitely not going to like this at all, no he wasn’t.


	5. you ask, "who are we?"

Lucien was bloody exhausted.

Swearing was plebeian, his instructors had chided. Do not swear, it is demeaning.

Well, it was his life.

Hunting down some new creature that had apparently been one of Hybern’s experiments was not fun. He had some blue blood and guts on him, he, of course, was right in the bloody path of Tamlin when he had ripped apart the creature. And he, of course, got a showering of blessings.

He had spent some of his dregs of magic not used from fighting the creature that had literally absorbed his power like it was nothing to banish them away.

The essence still lingered, however, and it was disgusting.

Tamlin had left as the esteemed High Priestess had something to say “in private”.

Lucien enters the room when he spots Feyre.

He had barely opened his mouth when Feyre adopted a look of pure fear and panic at him and talons, freaking talons, had grown.

Lucien blinks.

The claws retract and Feyre looks shaken.

Lucien huffs out a breath and inclines his head, signalling for Feyre to follow him.

He clearly had to put off his well-deserved shower.

-

“How long have the claws been appearing?”

“That was the first time.” Feyre’s voice rang hollow and dull.

Lucien surveys Feyre. He had sided with his Lord the last time, but Feyre needed something to do.

She was a wolf, a huntress, she would never be content with pretty dresses and tea parties.

“There’s only so much I can do, but I’ll ask him tonight. About the training. The powers will manifest whether we train you or not, no matter who is around. I’ll ask him tonight,” Lucien repeats.

Lucien doesn’t bother saying that he would probably not be successful unless he wanted a death sentence.

Feyre looks at him in this odd mix of sorrow and resignation that makes his gut clench, but he had his duties, his vows to people still alive. Suffering for nothing. Like Feyre. Like Tamlin. Like Bron and Hart and Alis and his personal servant Kara and so many more.

He would not fail them by dying.

-

“They will hunt her and kill her,” Ianthe hisses, eyes flashing.

“They’ll do it anyway, so what’s the difference?” Lucien snarls back, vicious, letting her see the fire in him.

Ianthe bristles visibly. A sense of vindictiveness shoots through him.

The difference, Ianthe seethes, lies in us having the advantage of this knowledge—it won’t be Feyre alone who is targeted for the gifts stolen from those High Lords. Your children, she says to Tamlin, will also have such power. Other High Lords will know that. And if they do not kill Feyre outright, then they might realize what they stand to gain if gifted with offspring from her, too.

Lucien bites down on his tongue. Eris would no doubt like to parade around someone like Feyre, Dacian would try to tame her wild spirit. Kieran would destroy her, try to break her-

“If they were to do that, none of the other High Lords would stand with them. They would face the wrath of six courts bearing down on them. No one is that stupid,” Lucien counters.

_Is this not merciful?_

_Clythia was the direct heir and descendent to the line of Light and Fire._

_Your lover was a whore, you have failed the Vanserra family. I hereby strip you from your titles, boy, you clearly are still a child._

Rhysand is that stupid, Ianthe spits. And with that power of his, he could potentially withstand it. Imagine, she says, voice softening as she turns to Tamlin, a day might come when he does not return her. You hear the poisoned lies he whispers in her ear. There are other ways around it, she had added with such quiet venom. We might not be able to deal with him, but there are some friends that I made across the sea …

“We are not assassins. Rhys is what he is, but who would take his place—“ Lucien replies swiftly. If Beron was a nightmare, Keir was the monster of despair.

_Who willingly sold their daughter like a broodmare to Eris of all Cauldron-damned people when Eris was already building his reputation?_

“Just let her train, let her master this—if the other High Lords do come for her, let her stand a chance,” Lucien begs, begs Tamlin.

Please, went the unsaid phrase. She’s already dying, she’s withering away and this can keep her together, please.

“No,” Tamlin growls after contemplative silence, and Lucien did not wish to turn to Ianthe to see what he knew was triumph and fake relief on her insipid face.

Lucien’s ears pricked up at hearing Feyre go up the steps, away.

Yes Feyre, please leave, get out, be free before Tamlin’s storm starts up-

Ianthe had floated over beside him and smiled at him.

Lucien ignores him.

He needed this, she needed this, how could Tamlin be so blind, she was falling apart and no one was doing anything-

“We give them no reason to suspect she might have any abilities, which training will surely do. Don’t give me that look, Lucien,” Tamlin ground out.

And suddenly Lucien was angry.

_Fire was in his blood, it was his and his alone to command, Lucien thinks as his flames grow higher and higher and turns shatters the tank Caliban and Aiden had thrown him in-_

Tamlin snarls and Lucien falls to his knees brutally and Ianthe lets out an undignified squeak, as he is reminded, forcefully reminded of who owned him, who he was bound to, who had saved him and given him so much.

“Do not push me on this,” Tamlin growls.

Lucien doesn’t.

He lets Tamlin shove him against the walls and nearly choke him as Tamlin lets his rage bleed out slowly.

Feyre had a chance to leave, Lucien thinks, but he did not, and he might as well live with it.

It was all he had after all.

Tamlin locked Lucien in his room for a day for disobedience and insubordination.

Lucien did not argue.

-

“Don’t bother trying,” Lucien softly says to Feyre.

Feyre, who looked like a lost, desperate wolf cub, who looked like a cornered animal, who was so broken Lucien didn’t know how even to help.

“He shielded the entire house around you. Others can go in and out, but you can’t. Not until he lifts the shield.”

Pure panic. Amarantha had locked her in too, Lucien realises with a start.

Feyre hits the shield.

Lucien’s fingernails dig so hard into his palms that the skin broke and fresh blood welled out.

“Just—be patient, Feyre,” Lucien tries, wincing. “Please. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try again.”

Please endure it. Please see reason, don’t fade away, don’t push everyone away.

It was his duty to serve, to protect. The bond was not flaring up, why was it not flaring up?

Lucien touches it. It was in shambles, Lucien realises with a sort of dawning horror.

Magic, unknown and brutal, had punched holes in it until it fell apart, like cutting off threads from a spider web.

Lucien freezes as a dark, looming power breaches the wards.

The Morrigan.

He whips his head back. Feyre, oh gods, where was she-

Lucien was about to step forward when he sees Morrigan.

And smells it.

A mating bond. Between her and-

Oh.

Lucien assesses the situation.

_He served. He protected._

Lucien steps aside and bows slightly, letting her in even though she could probably tear him apart without even lifting a finger, like how Tamlin could in a fit of rage.

The Morrigan hones her gaze on him.

Blinks, before tilting her head and nodding.

Letting the prey go.

Lucien watches, watches as Alis pleads her, watches as Morrigan picks out Feyre, shivering, sobbing Feyre, from the whirl of darkness and invisible threads of the universe. Watches as Morrigan reassures Feyre.

“You’re free,” she repeats, over and over again, as she lets Feyre bury her nose into her neck and inhale her scent.

“You’re free,” she smiles gently even as her eyes promise retribution and rage as she steps out of the room and out to the gates, knocking out sentries.

Morrigan pauses at the window Lucien stood by.

“You are stronger than you think,” Morrigan says, and Lucien is unsure if she’s saying it for Feyre or for him.

Lucien blankly watches Morrigan look at him with sympathy and kindness that hurt him, that was tearing him apart, that was re-making him and destroying every essence of him-

Lucien blinks and she is gone.

Lucien sighs, steels himself and winnows to Tamlin, plastering a smile on his face as he laughs and his cycle of protecting and nearly dying renews.


	6. I say,

Tamlin, Lucien decides, is going to kill them all.

Allying with Hybern. Of all-

Lucien clamps down on his rage.

Feyre. Lucien hoped the Morrigan was treating her right.

She had either festered with hate against what Eris had done or was so disgusted that she would never do such a thing.

There were, however, more than one way to torture someone.

Lucien is ordered to capture Feyre’s sisters. Something he knew Feyre would never forgive him for.

He had wanted to fight, of course. Tell Tamlin that Feyre would slaughter him for it.

Tamlin had growled, told him he had two weeks to do it, and that he would be taking Ianthe during Calanmai.

Lucien saw the order in his eyes, the twitching of his hands and did not argue.

-

He had scrubbed himself clean until his skin was raw and bleeding right after. He did not leave the bathroom for hours.

-

Lucien winnowed silently to the border.

Feyre, forgive me.

Lucien poured some sedatives in the food the servants were preparing and waited.

-

“Who are you?” Nesta snarls.

Lucien just stares blankly at them.

Gods, what has he done.

The other sister, Elain, had woken up too and was shaking.

“Where is Feyre?” Nesta demands again, struggling against the ropes binding them together.

Lucien purses his lips and turns away from them in the dark room.

A signal of footsteps announces Tamlin’s arrival.

Lucien drops to his knees in one fluid motion.

“My Lord,” Lucien greets and Tamlin nods.

“No harm shall befall you as long as you follow what I say and do not aggravate the King,” Tamlin orders, all brusque and business.

Nesta scowls and angles herself in front of Elain.

“You, you fae, you take away my sister, you kill her, you bring her back, you change her. What more do you want from us?”

Feyre had visited them?

Tamlin clearly had the same question.

“Is she okay?” Tamlin urges.

Nesta sneers.

“Okay enough to bring her two winged, overgrown bats, that unappreciative dark-hair male and the blond one for dinner,” Nesta spat out.

“General Cassian, Spymaster and Shaodwsinger Azriel, Rhysand and the Morrigan,” Lucien murmurs to Tamlin.

“How was Feyre,” Tamlin demands.

Nesta visibly bristles.

“You kidnap us, just to ask us inane questions about her?”

Tamlin growls and talons flick out.

Lucien starts for the sisters, who’s attention snapped to the claws.

“Feyre is important, she is mine, do you understand?”

“The Feyre I knew would never sell her life away for ownership unless it was for survival,” Elain bravely says mildly, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.

Tamlin roars and shifts into the beast.

Nesta covers Elain and they automatically move towards the wall.

“Tamlin, you will not harm them,” Lucien warns.

“Stand down, Emissary,” Tamlin growls back, and it stings, but he has more things to take care of than his own feelings from insecurity and childishness.

“You will not harm the two you have sworn to protect. Feyre will never forgive you,” Lucien pleads.

Tamlin heaves a sigh and shifts back.

Nesta gives a wary look.

Elain, however, looks at him, calculating.

Oh no, Lucien thinks, they probably think he’s an ally now.

Lucien refrains from sighing. Archeron sisters, pains in the arse.

“Emissary, inform them of what is happening,” Tamlin snaps and leaves.

Lucien does sigh this time.

“I will loosen your ropes, do not come flying at me, I can tell you that I will not hurt you but the other sentries have been ordered to detain you whatever methods possible by the High Lord,” Lucien warns.

Nesta gives him a glance and deems him suitable.

Lucien loosens the knots.  
“Do you want me to heal the bruises?” Lucien asks.

“Do what you must,” Nesta sneers.

“Thank you,” Elain adds.

Lucien follows suit silently.

“You stay quiet. Tam is going to use you to get Feyre back from Night Court, where she was… staying. The situation is more complex than that, and I cannot tell you much. What I will now tell you will increase your chances of survival, you may even go back to your home safely and unharmed.”

Nesta looks like she’s refraining from clawing at his face for kidnapping them in the first place.

“Hybern will do many things if they got their hands on you. Feyre will come to save you, as long as you stay still and not incur the wrath of Tam and Hybern, I can protect you long enough for you to escape. Drink this water, have some food, not all in case you need to puke from nerves or run. Please, for the life of you two, do not make them angry. I am only one against many,” Lucien says, passing them a cup of water and a container of some vegetables and beef strips.

“Why,” Nesta asks, cautiously accepting the water.

“I have sworn to protect Feyre. I know she will never forgive me for not protecting the two of you. Besides, I have many vows and debts. Of lesser fae, of humans, of High Fae. It is written in bindings that I protect those who cannot protect themselves. This threat, it is far greater than you can imagine. The people have already seen 50 years of suffering, I will try to shield them from another war so they can have a semblance of happiness,” Lucien softly says.

Nesta falls silent.

“You will vow or swear or whatever to protect Elain no matter what. Elain comes before me,” Nesta commands.

Three sisters, connected by fate, in this together, binded by life.

Mother, Maiden, Crone.

“I swear to protect Elain Archeron to my best ability, and as dictated, so mote it be,” Lucien vows and the magic washes over him and Elain.

Elain continues to stare at him.

“You better,” Nesta sniffs, but relaxes slightly.

Lucien gives a wry smile and collects the used cup, settling down beside them on the floor.

“I live to serve.”


	7. oh dear,

Lucien thinks he made a mistake.

Seeing Feyre so healthy, so happy, so enraged (at him, at Tamlin), so alive.

Lucien wonders if he made a mistake bringing Nesta and Elain into this.

Lucien ignores everyone and looks down, ears ringing, blood rushing in his head.

He can barely hear the others, his vision is blurry-

“You,” the king said, pointing a thick finger at Feyre, “are a very difficult female to get ahold of. Of course, we’ve also agreed that you’ll work for me once you’ve been returned home to your husband, but … Is it husband-to-be, or husband? I can’t remember.”

First strike. Tamlin bristles.

“Tamlin,” Lucien whispers. A plead. A warning.

But Tamlin didn’t lower the hand stretched toward Feyre. “I’m taking you home.”

Feyre backed up a step—toward where Rhysand still held Azriel with Cassian.

The two Illyrians. Bloodthirsty when it came to protecting their own.

He would have to be fast, have to grab Elain and Nesta and winnow the hell out of here to their home.

“There’s that other bit, too. The other thing I wanted,” the king went on. “Well, Jurian wanted. Two birds with one stone, really. The High Lord of Night dead—and to learn who his friends were. It drove Jurian quite mad, honestly, that you never revealed it during those fifty years. So now you know, Jurian. And now you can do what you please with them.”

Around Feyre, the Night Court was tense—taut. Azriel was subtly moving a bloody, scarred hand closer to his blades.

Feyre says steadily, clearly, to Tamlin, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You’ll say differently, my dear,” the king countered, “when I complete the final part of my bargain.”

Cauldron save them, Lucien prays, watching that strike of horror appear in Feyre’s face.

The king jerked his chin at my left arm. “Break that bond between you two.”

“Please,” Feyre whispers.

Lucien blinks once, twice, discreetly looking at Morrigan.

Morrigan meets his gaze, daring him to speak.

They thought she was bonded with Rhysand. They were going to break the bargain bond.

Lucien glances at Feyre, who looked horrified, muscles (muscles, she had been training, she wasn’t being caged) rippling and taut.

Star actress. High Fae were always wonderful with their lies and smiles.

Rhys remained silent, though his grip tightened on Azriel. Observing—weighing, sorting through the lock on his power.

Feyre’s voice cracks as she says to Tamlin, still at the opposite end of the crude half circle they’d formed before the dais, “Don’t. Don’t let him. I told you—I told you that I was fine. That I left—”

“You weren’t well,” Tamlin snarls. “He used that bond to manipulate you. Why do you think I was gone so often? I was looking for a way to get you free. And you left.”

“I left because I was going to die in that house!”

The King of Hybern clicked his tongue. “Not what you expected, is it?”

Tamlin growled at him, but again held out his hand toward Feyre. “Come home with me. Now.”

“No,” Feyre replies shortly.

Lucien flinches involuntarily, drawing Night’s attention.

Cauldron save the,, if they had a meltdown here right now, he couldn’t protect Elain and Nesta-

And Lucien realises something.

They would be using her sisters as a bargaining chip.

How could he not have realised, he had never thought Tamlin would stoop so low, he had thought they were just going to help Feyre assimilate together to Spring again-

Lucien looks directly at Rhysand, begging him with his eyes, telling him to look into his damn mind.

Rhysand was barely breathing, barely moving.

Morrigan was doing the same, letting the blood of the two lllyrians shield the scent of the mating bond further.

He needed to get the two out safe. Preferably without breaking any of his vows.

Jurian’s sword was already out—and he was looking at Mor as if he was going to kill her first. Azriel’s blood-drained face twisted with rage as he noticed that stare. Cassian, still holding him upright, took them all in, assessing, readying himself to fight, to defend. Tamlin was still domineering Feyre, scowl in place. Hybern looked so amused Lucine was tempted to slap that smirk off his face.

“I’ll come with you,” Feyre says softly to Tamlin, to Lucien, shifting on his feet, “if you leave them alone. Let them go.”

Lucien knows, he knows how this is going to go down.

It always ends in a fight. How he could have thought they were compatible with each other, he did not know.

The girl had grown up into a strong woman who did not need Tamlin. Did not like who Tamlin had grown to be, an ugly, twisted version of himself.

Tamlin’s face contorts with wrath. “They’re monsters. They’re—” He didn’t finish as he stalked across the floor to grab Feyre.

Lucien begins to step back to the hidden corner, waiting or the moment to get the sisters.

Tamlin lunged for Feyre over the few feet that remained. So fast—too fast—

Feyre becomes mist and shadow, and winnows beyond his reach.

The king let out a low laugh as Tamlin stumbles.

And went sprawling as Rhysand’s fist connects with his face.

It was done in perfect synchrony. Whatever training Feyre had received-

Panting, Feyre retreats right into Rhysand’s arms as one looped around my waist, as Azriel’s blood on him soaked into my back. Behind them, Morrigan leaps in to fill the space Rhys had vacated, slinging Azriel’s arm over her shoulders.

They were a unit, lethal, a force that could not be contained. They were night, they were darkness and shadows and moons and stars.

Look at me, Lucien silently pleads Rhysand.

Tamlin rose, wiping the blood now trickling from his nose as he backed to where Lucien held his position with a hand on his sword.

He had to protect Elain and Nesta, had to-

But just as Tamlin neared his Emissary, he staggered a step. His face went white with rage.

Tamlin understood a moment before the king laughed. “I don’t believe it. Your bride left you only to find her mate. The Mother has a warped sense of humor, it seems. And what a talent—tell me, girl: how did you unravel that spell?”

The hatred in Tamlin’s eyes made Feyre’s knees buckle. “I’m sorry,” Feyre says.

Tamlin’s eyes were on Rhysand, his face near-feral. “You,” he snarled, the sound more animal than Fae. “What did you do to her?”

Oh Tam, if only you knew, Lucien thinks distantly as he edges towards the doors.

Behind, the doors opened and soldiers poured in. Some looked like the Attor. Some looked worse. More and more, filling up the room, the exits, armor and weapons clanking.

Morrigan and Cassian, Azriel sagging and heavy-lidded between them, scans each soldier and weapon, sizing up the best odds of escape. Feyre left them to it as Rhysand and her faced Tamlin.

“I’m not going with you,” Feyre spits at Tamlin, so like Nesta had. “And even if I did … You spineless, stupid fool for selling us out to him! Do you know what he wants to do with that Cauldron?”

“Oh, I’m going to do many, many things with it,” the king says.

And the Cauldron appeared again between us.

“Starting now.”

Talons and wings and shadows were instantly around Feyre, surrounded by water and fire-

Then Feyre gasped.

Lucien knew what was happening.

His vow to Elain and Nesta, made with desperation, was flaring up.

“Ah,” the king said to me, clicking his tongue, “that. Look at you. A child of all seven courts—like and unlike all. How the Cauldron purrs in your presence. Did you plan to use it? Destroy it? With that book, you could do anything you wished.”

Feyre didn’t say anything. The king shrugs. “You’ll tell me soon enough.”

“I made no bargain with you.”

“No, but your master did, so you will obey.”

Feyre hisses at Tamlin, “If you bring me from here, if you take me from my mate, I will destroy you. I will destroy your court, and everything you hold dear.”

Tamlin’s lips thinned. But he said simply, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lucien cringes. Oh gods.

The king jerked his chin to the guards by the side door through which Tamlin and Lucien had appeared. “No—she doesn’t.” The doors opened again. “There will be no destroying,” the king went on as people—as women walked through those doors.

Four women. Four humans. The four remaining queens.

“Because,” the king said, the queens’ guards falling into rank behind them, hauling something in the core of their formation, “you will find, Feyre Archeron, that it is in your best interest to behave.”

The four queens sneered at them with hate in their eyes. Hate.

And parted to let their personal guards through.

Nesta and Elain Archeron were here.

The final bargain.

Lucien nearly doubles over as the vow pulls towards them, at Elain was quietly sobbing, the gag soaked with her tears. Nesta, hair disheveled as if she’d fought like a wildcat, was panting as she took them in. Took in the Cauldron.

Took in Lucien. Lucien nearly cringes under her damning gaze. Her subtle shifting to point towards Elain.

Lucien steels himself. He is a male of his word.

Nesta nods imperceptibly.

“You made a very big mistake,” the king said to Rhysand, his arms banded around Feyre, “the day you went after the Book. I had no need of it. I was content to let it lie hidden. But the moment your forces started sniffing around … I decided who better than to be my liaison to the human realm than my newly reborn friend, Jurian? He’d just finished all those months of recovering from the process, and longed to see what his former home had become, so he was more than happy to visit the continent for an extended visit.”

Indeed the queens smiled at him—bowed their heads. Rhysand’s arms tightened.

“The brave, cunning Jurian, who suffered so badly at the end of the War—now my ally. Here to help me convince these queens to aid in my cause. For a price of his own, of course, but it has no bearing here. And wiser to work with me, my men, than to allow you monsters in the Night Court to rule and attack. Jurian was right to warn their Majesties that you’d try to take the Book—that you would feed them lies of love and goodness, when he had seen what the High Lord of the Night Court was capable of. The hero of the human forces, reborn as a gesture to the human world of my good faith. I do not wish to invade the continent—but to work with them. My powers ensconced their court from prying eyes, just to show them the benefits.” A smirk at Azriel, who could hardly lift his head to snarl back. “Such impressive attempts to infiltrate their sacred palace, Shadowsinger—and utter proof to their Majesties, of course, that your court is not as benevolent as you seem.”

“Liar,” Feyre hisses, and whirls on the queens, daring only a step away from Rhysand. “They are liars, and if you do not let my sisters go, I will slaughter—”

“Do you hear the threats, the language they use in the Night Court?” the king said to the mortal queens, their guards now around us in a half circle. “Slaughter, ultimatums … They wish to end life. I desire to give it.”

The eldest queen said to him, refusing to acknowledge Feyre’s words, “Then show us—prove this gift you mentioned.”

Rhysand tugged Feyre back against him. He says quietly to the queen, “You’re a fool.”

The king cut in, “Is she? Why submit to old age and ailments when what I offer is so much better?” He waved a hand toward Feyre. “Eternal youth. Do you deny the benefits? A mortal queen becomes one who might reign forever. Of course, there are risks—the transition can be … difficult. But a strong-willed individual could survive.”

The youngest queen, the dark-haired one, smiled slightly. Arrogant youth—and bitter old age. Only the two others, the ones who wore white and black, seemed to hesitate, stepping closer to each other—and their towering guards.

The ancient queen lifted her chin, “Show us. Demonstrate it can be done, that it is safe.”

Elain does not look at any of them. Elain only looks at him, at Nesta.

Lucien takes a small step away from Tamlin.

The king nodded. “Why did you think I asked my dear friend Ianthe to see who Feyre Archeron would appreciate having with her for eternity?” Feyre glances at the queens, the question no doubt written on my face. The king explains, “Oh, I asked them first. They deemed it too … uncouth to betray two young, misguided women. Ianthe had no such qualms. Consider it my wedding present for you both,” he adds to Tamlin.

But Tamlin’s face tightens. “What?”

The king cocks his head, savoring every word. “I think the High Priestess was waiting until your return to tell you, but didn’t you ever ask why she believed I might be able to break the bargain? Why she had so many musings on the idea? So many millennia have the High Priestesses been forced to their knees for the High Lords. And during those years she dwelled in that foreign court … such an open mind, she has. Once we met, once I painted for her a portrait of a Prythian free of High Lords, where the High Priestesses might rule with grace and wisdom … She didn’t take much convincing.”

Feyre looked like she was going to vomit. Tamlin, to his credit, looked like he might, too.

Ianthe, that fucking bitch of a whore.

Lucien’s face slackens. “She sold out—she sold out Feyre’s family. To you.”

Nesta now looks at him.

Lucien inches closer.

“Sold out?” The king snorts. “Or saved from the shackles of mortal death? Ianthe suggested they were both strong-willed women, like their sister. No doubt they’ll survive. And prove to our queens it can be done. If one has the strength.”

“Don’t you—

The king cut Feyre off, “I would suggest bracing yourselves.”

And then hell exploded in the hall.

Power, white and unending and hideous, barreled into everyone.

Rhysand’s body covering Feyre as they were all thrown to the floor, the shout of pain as he took the brunt of the king’s power.

Cassian twisted, wings flaring wide as he shielded Azriel.

Cassian’s scream as his wings shredded under talons of pure magic was the most horrific sound Lucien ever heard. Morrigan surged for him, but too late.

Rhysand was moving in an instant, as if he’d lunge for the king, but power hit them again, and again. Rhysand slammed to his knees.

_I kneel only for my queen_

Nesta and Elain scream.

Lucien bites down on his frustration and moves further away, slowly, surely-

But Elain’s cry—a warning. A warning to—

To Feyre’s right, now exposed, Tamlin ran for her. To grab her at last.

Feyre hurls a knife at him.

He had to dive to miss it. And he backed away at the second one she had ready, gaping at her, at Rhysand, as if he could indeed see the mating bond between them.

Tamlin was festering. Tamlin was going to kill them all one day, and Lucien could not believe that this was how it was going to end.

Lucien was near now.

Feyre whirls as soldiers pressed in, cutting them off. Whirls, and ses Cassian and Azriel on the ground, Jurian laughing softly at the blood gushing from Cassian’s ravaged wings—

Shreds of them remained.

Lucien stamps down the urge to hurl. Illyrians, with their prized wings, and Cassian’s-

War was never for the faint-hearted.

Feyre scrambled for him.

Morrigan, on her knees beside Cassian, hurtled for the king with a cry of pure wrath.

He sent a punch of power to her. She dodged, a knife angled in her hand, and—

Azriel cried out in pain.

She froze. Stopped a foot from the throne. Her knife clattered to the floor.

The king rose. “What a mighty queen you are,” he breathed.

And Mor backed away. Step by step.

No, Lucien thinks in horror, stopping his slow walk to the sisters.

“What a prize,” the king said, that black gaze devouring her.

_Eris’s eyes flashing mockingly. “Your choice in females are absolutely atrocious, she’s just a whore” “Like your first bride?” Lucien had snarled, then screamed as fire burned him, burned his clothes to cinders, flayed his skin._

Azriel’s head lifted from where he was sprawled in his own blood, eyes full of rage and pain as he snarled at the king, “Don’t you touch her.”

Morrigan looked at Azriel—and there was real fear there. Fear—and something else. She didn’t stop moving until she again kneeled beside him and pressed a hand to his wound. Azriel hissed—but covered her bloody fingers with his own.

The blood, the blood and scents all over the place was helping to cover their bond. Morrigan always stayed near Rhysand, to cover it up.

Wonderful, wicked liars.

Rhysand positioned himself between Feyre and the king as Feyre dropped to my knees before Cassian. Feyre ripped at the leather covering my forearm—

Lucien begins his approach again. There were too many guards, best to make a distraction first before getting them. Perhaps Night would, he knew they would never surrender like that.

“Put the prettier one in first,” the king said, Morrigan already forgotten.

Feyre twisted—only to have the king’s guards grab her from behind. Rhysand was instantly there, but Azriel shouted, back arching as the king’s poison worked its way in.

“Please refrain,” the king said, “from getting any stupid ideas, Rhysand.” He smiled at Feyre. “If any of you interfere, the shadowsinger dies. Pity about the other brute’s wings.” He gave the sisters a mockery of a bow. “Ladies, eternity awaits. Prove to their Majesties the Cauldron is safe for … strong-willed individuals.”

Feyre was shaking her head.

Rhysand, look at me-

Lucien felt the vow screaming, dragging him-

Nesta was no longer looking at him, but at the King with such hateful eyes.

Elain, Elain was shaking, sobbing, as she was hauled forward. Toward the Cauldron.

Nesta began thrashing against the men that held her.

Tamlin said, “Stop.”

The king did no such thing.

“Stop this,” Lucien breathes out, lacing command with the two words.

“Your compulsions will not work here, young one,” the king says to Lucien, looking at him with pity and sadistic amusement in his eyes.

Nesta was bellowing at the guards, at the king, as Elain yielded step after step toward that Cauldron. As the king waved his hand, and liquid filled it to the brim. No, no—

The queens only watched, stone-faced. And Rhysand and Morrigan, separated from Feyre by those guards, did not dare to even shift a muscle.

Tamlin spat at the king, “This is not part of our deal. Stop this now.”

“I don’t care,” the king said simply.

Tamlin launched himself at the throne, as if he’d rip him to shreds.

Lucien moves forward.

His High Lord-

That white-hot magic slammed into him, shoving him to the ground. Leashing him.

Tamlin strained against the collar of light on his neck, around his wrists. His golden power flared—to no avail. Feyre tore at the fist still gripping my own, sliced at it, over and over—

Lucien staggered a step forward as Elain was gripped between two guards and hoisted up. She began kicking then, weeping while her feet slammed into the sides of the Cauldron as if she’d push off it, as if she’d knock it down—

“That is enough.” Lucien surged for Elain, for the Cauldron.

He would not fail.

And he was on the ground in a moment.

Lucien flares up his power, fire and some unnamed thing in him burning against the runes.

Rhysand barely glanced at him.

Lucien glances at Elain and Tamlin again.

So mote it be.

“Please,” Feyre was begging the king, who motioned Elain to be shoved into the water. “Please, I will do anything, I will give you anything.” Feyre shot to her feet, stepping away from where Cassian lay prostrate, and looked to the queens. “Please—you do not need proof, I am proof that it works. Jurian is proof it is safe.”

Lucien’s magic screams against the wards, bangs on it in desperation. The vows, the vows entailing him and strangling him, providing strength and desperation to break it apart-

“You are an interesting bunch,” the King says, gaze not straying Lucien and the Cauldron.

He knew. He knew something, that bastard.

The ancient queen said, “You are a thief, and a liar. You conspired with our sister. Your punishment should be the same as hers. Consider this a gift instead.”

Elain’s foot hit the water, and she screamed—screamed in terror that hit me so deep I began sobbing. “Please,” Feyre says to none of them.

Nesta was still fighting, still roaring through her gag.

Elain, who Nesta would have killed and whored and stolen for. Elain, who had been gentle and sweet. Elain, who was to marry a lord’s son who hated faeries …

The guards shoved my sister into the Cauldron in a single movement.

The vow lurches.

Lucien bites down on his tongue to keep from screaming-

Oh gods, the vow, he had to get out, he had to, she was dying and his magic was being sucked away to keep her afloat, please-

She did not come up.

Nesta’s screaming was the only sound. Cassian blindly lurched toward it—toward her, moaning in pain.

The King of Hybern bowed slightly to the queens. “Behold.”

Rhysand, a wall of guards still cleaving the,, curled his fingers into a fist. But he did not move, as Morrigan and Feyre did not dare move, not with Azriel’s life dangling in the king’s grasp.

And as if it had been tipped by invisible hands, the Cauldron turned on its side.

More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water.

And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown.

Lucien nearly sobs as his magic is forced back into him.

As he meets Nesta’s gaze, the betrayal and anger shining in them, he knows he has failed.

-

Her legs were so pale—so delicate.

The queens pushed forward. Alive, she had to be alive, had to have wanted to live—

Elain sucked in a breath, her fine-boned back rising, her wet nightgown nearly sheer.

And as she rose from the ground onto her elbows, the gag in place, as she twisted to look at Feyre—

Nesta began roaring again.

Pale skin started to glow. Her face had somehow become more beautiful—infinitely beautiful, and her ears … Elain’s ears were now pointed beneath her sodden hair.

The queens gasped.

Oh gods.

Lucien throws his magic against the chains again.

“So we can survive,” the dark-haired youngest breathed, eyes bright.

Feyre fell to her knees, the guards not bothering to grab her as she sobbed.

What he’d done, what he’d done—

“Did you know,” the king says, “a mating bond can be repressed, and replaced, as long as there is a powerful mage?”

Lucien heard nothing, blood pounding, symbols on his chains flaring, he had done this once, he had to do it again-

“I find it delectable that your father,” the King says, jerking his head at Rhysand,” placed a security factor on your bloodline that your mating bond would be repressed when in true danger. So why is it that I can scent not one, but two mating bonds here with such a signature?”

The entire Night freezes. Even Nesta does.

The King smiles, sharp and dangerous.

“Such honey-ed lies you pour into their ears, child of night and darkness. Did you really think I would not be able to scent the bond between your supposed mate and our mistress of truth?” The King purrs.

Morrigan snarls.

“You lie,” Feyre says again.

“No, you do. His and her scents are very similar, is it not? And there is the matter of the second one. No worries, we will find it. It has been buried for centuries. Yours, of course, has just come to the surface,” the King laughs, laughs as though he had not just ruined their chances of survival.

“The hellcat now, if you’ll be so kind,” the King of Hybern said.

Feyre whipped her head to Nesta as she went silent. The Cauldron righted itself.

Cassian again stirred, slumping on the floor—but his hand twitched. Toward Nesta.

Elain was still shivering on the wet stones, her nightgown shoved up to her thighs, her small breasts fully visible beneath the soaked fabric. Guards snickered.

Lucien gives one last snarl before the containment breaks.

He ignores the calculating gaze of the king. His vow is flaring up, must help, must save, must defend.

First Elain, then Nesta.

Lucien hangs his jacket around Elain and Nesta growls at him.

Lucien gives a nod. Nesta has not forgiven him.

Will probably never, he thinks distantly, as he helps Elain off the ground and Elain shudders uncontrollably.

“Your time has come,” Elain suddenly whispers, and Lucien blinks.

Elain falls silent again.

Lucien lets his flame dry Elain’s clothes and hair as Feyre glares at him, as Nesta glares at the King.

Nesta fought every step of the way.

She did not make it easy for them. She clawed and kicked and bucked.

And it was not enough.

And he was not enough to save her.

She was hoisted up. Elain did not look at the Cauldron behind her, not as Nesta’s thrashing feet slammed into the water.

Cassian stirred again, his shredded wings twitching and spraying blood, his muscles quivering. At Nesta’s shouts, her raging, his eyes fluttered open, glazed and unseeing, an answer to some call in his blood, a promise he’d made her. But pain knocked him under again.

Nesta was shoved into the water up to her shoulders. She bucked even as the water sprayed. She clawed and screamed her rage, her defiance.

Lucien manages to meet her eyes as a half thanks and half hate for saving Elain but saving her too late.

“Put her under,” the king hissed.

The guards, straining, shoved her slender shoulders. Her brown-gold head.

And as they pushed her head down, she thrashed one last time, freeing her long, pale arm.

Teeth bared, Nesta pointed one finger at the King of Hybern.

One finger, a curse and a damning.

A promise.

And as Nesta’s head was forced under the water, as that hand was violently shoved down, the King of Hybern had the good sense to look somewhat unnerved.

-

Dark water lapped for a moment. The surface went flat.

Feyre vomited on the floor. Lucien wanted to do the same too.

The guards at last let Morrigan kneel beside Feyre in the growing pool of Cassian’s blood—let her tuck Feyre into her as the Cauldron again tilted.

Water poured forth, Lucien hoisting Elain in his arms and out of the way. The bonds on Tamlin vanished, along with the gag. He was instantly on his feet, snarling at the king.

Nesta was sprawled upon the stones.

Nesta was different, Lucien realises.

From however Elain had been Made … Nesta was different.

Even before she took her first breath, he felt it.

As if the Cauldron in making her … had been forced to give more than it wanted. As if Nesta had fought even after she went under, and had decided that if she was to be dragged into hell, she was taking that Cauldron with her.

As if that finger she’d pointed was now a death-promise to the King of Hybern.

Nesta took a breath. And when I beheld my sister, with her somehow magnified beauty, her ears … When Nesta looked to me …

Rage. Power. Cunning.

Then it was gone, horror and shock crumpling her face, but she didn’t pause, didn’t halt. She was free—she was loose.

She was on her feet, tripping over her slightly longer, leaner limbs, ripping the gag from her mouth—

Nesta slammed into Lucien, grabbing Elain from his arms, and screamed at him as he fell back, “Get off her!”

Elain’s feet slipped against the floor, but Nesta gripped her upright, running her hands over Elain’s face, her shoulders, her hair— “Elain, Elain, Elain,” she sobbed.

Lucien met Rhysand’s gaze.

Lucien subtly nods towards them as he lets Elain run to Nesta.

“I’m sorry,” Lucien whispers.

Cassian again stirred—trying to rise, to answer Nesta’s voice as she held Elain and cried her name again and again.

Rhysand blinks once.

“Nesta will kill you for that,” Lucien says, drawing attention to him.

Tamlin stiffens.

Everyone’s attention is on him now.

“She is nothing compared to the power of Hybern, little light,” the King dismisses.

“You will pay for going against nature,” Lucien growls back, fire sparking in him even as water dripped down his clothes.

_Water, to repress fire. Glass shattering, screaming, dripping in blood from head to toe_

“Oh no, I already have,” the King says.

“Have you ever wondered why your name has such a special little meaning?” The King cruelly continues.

Lucien’s world stops.

“Lucien Vanserra, 7th son of Hestia Lysander. Lysander, one who is freed, liberator,” the King sighs,”and on this day, I, King of Hybern, free the ancient magics, I free the bond curse I have placed, I free thy enemy, I free the spirits of the universe and beyond. I call upon you to assist me, I call upon you to help me.”

“I call upon you,” the King continues, as Lucien’s head pounds, as his breaths become shorter,”to free the son of Light and Fire. Heir of Light and Fire, you are restored. Heir of Light and Fire, you will regain your birthright. May light shine, but never against the binder.”

Lucien screams as he his knees buckle and light enfolds him.


	8. we are a tragedy.

_"The child, my Lady,” a court healer says._

_Hestia looks on at her child. 7th son. Who was fire, who was light._

_She would protect him. Beron must never know._

_Lucien stares back up at her, eyes shining and lips quirking upwards, steady, rhythmic breathing calm and soothing._

_“Helion would be so proud,” Hestia murmurs._

-

_"The boy must have his bond bonded, we cannot afford it. Tensions are rising, war is coming, Hestia, he can find his mate after, not now,” Beron was growling and pacing._

_“Let it come. He will survive. My bloodline always will, he will come to his inheritance and learn how to wield the ancient magics of flame and dragons.”_

_“He must be protected,” Beron insists._

_“For you to leash him to you?” Hestia softly says, finally looking up into Beron’s furious eyes._

-

Lucien gasps.

Tamlin is yelling, his mind is a mess, oh gods.

What had the King done?

“You’re welcome, you will know the rest soon,” the King smirks.

Feyre looks distantly horrified, not knowing id she should look at Night, her sisters or at him.

Lucien turns over and promptly hurls his guts. He heaves for air as Tamlin rushes to him.

“Don’t touch me,” Lucien rasps as his fire surrounds him, curls around him.

_Feyre’s wide eyes staring back. A cocoon of wind and air._

_A beast growling as Lucien fends off the attacks._

Lucien wipes his mouth with a sleeve. Vanishes the mess.

His magic has doubled, tripled. In seconds.

“How,” Lucien grits out.

“I have lived many moons, child. I know many secrets and ways of uncovering them, not unlike you, but your knowledge is outstripped by mine,” the King says, not a brag but a statement.

“What was it, tell me Lucien,” Tamlin demands.

Lucien curls his hands into fists at the command.

He is a son of a Lady and a High Lord. He has come to claim his life.

Somewhere in him, he knows this is right.

“I make a deal with you,” Lucien says to the King.

Careful, little fox.

Feyre freezes and Morrigan shifts uneasily.

“My fidelity, in exchange for freeing Elain, Nesta, Feyre, Tamlin, the members of Night present and the members of Spring present. Immunity for them,” Lucien states.

“No,” Feyre murmurs.

“Lucien, do not do this, as your High Lord I command you to stop,” Tamlin growls.

Lucien does not flinch.

He is a male of his word. He will break himself to see the world freed.

Lysander, an old name dating back to the creation of fae.

_Clythia was the direct descendant of light and fire._

_So is Lucien now, since Clythia and Amarantha are gone._

“You offer a good bargain, but not good enough,” the King chuckles.

“I am at your service, and so are my skills,” Lucien adds on.

At this, Night sucks in a breath collectively.

They know of how powerful he was with his words.

How he helped Spring rise from the ashes and forge connections.

“The people present cannot harm me if I let them leave.”

“They can defend themselves against you when provoked,” Lucien counters.

Another game. Tread carefully.

The King considers.

“You can carve Ianthe up and fling her against the walls? She’s always been such a bitch,” Lucien adds, and Rhysand chokes while Tamlin glares.

“Deal,” the King nods.

“Lucien,” Tamlin growls.

“I am grateful to all you have done, Tamlin,” Lucien gently says, before steeling himself.

“I am ready,” Lucien announces.

The King smirks, wicked and lazy.

And he chants.

Lucien feels the vows breaking. The collective intake of air around them confirms it. So many life debts, so many vows.

Lucien had carefully collected them, carefully gave them away.

It was all for nothing.

Rhysand glances at him. In understanding, in sorrow.

Feyre is shaking again.

Wonderful Feyre, who had grown up.

Morrigan, Cassian and Azriel were gazing at him in respect, although Cassian was half dying.

Lucien catches Rhysand’s gaze again and feels him slipping into his mind.

“Get your court, get her sisters, get them out, warn Tamlin too. Break a hole into the wards,” Lucien whispers.

Rhysand’s mental presence nods.

He begins to leave, but then stops.

He bows lowly.

“Thank you,” Rhysand quietly says.

Lucien does not reply as the world goes white once more and he stiffens.

-

The bond feels like thorns, prickly and slimy. Cold.

“Ah, we will need our newest to be dressed accordingly,” the King announces.

The King claps his hands and Lucien’s clothes are replaced by a sarong-like cloth.

Seems like the King had been travelling to Rask.

Feyre sucks in a breath. Lucien nearly blushes.

His back, he knew, was not healed from all those lashes. Rubbing in faebane and salt, the wounds got more aggravated and would not heal properly. Not for a long time.

And claw marks. Undoubtedly all Tamlin when he was in hsi rage and Lucien had not enough power to protect himself, the most recent ones.

A scar from the sword that had beheaded Jesminda.

His life was imprinted on him.

His sins were all out for everyone to see, but Lucien did not give a damn as he walked up to that throne.

His hair was tied into a low bun, wrists encased by some band of magic.

“Welcome, Lucien, son of Helion Spell-Cleaver and Hestia Vanserra neé Lysander,” the King announces.

Lucien smiles prettily, and the world goes to hell.


	9. error: no identity

It is a mess.

Night leaves, Tamlin runs. The sentries flee after him. The King roars, chains Lucien to the throne before ordering his guards to hunt them down.

Lucien merely sits down on the dirty floor and plays with his fingers.

He’s going to need some time to think, and who better to give him the time than the King when he dumps him into a cell?

_Lucien has always thrived in the shadows, locked away._


End file.
